Wrong Place, Wrong Time
by katbybee
Summary: Written for the 2017 HH Mini Bang. An A/U version explaining the arrival of Andrew Carter at Stalag 13. It has long been speculated that the Lt. Carter who was shifted through camp during the pilot was not the same as the Sgt. Carter in the series…what if that were partly true? Written from Peter Newkirk's POV. Usual useless disclaimers.


**9 Feb 42**

 **Stalag 13**

I am back in the cooler again. I don't really mind. I am bloody well used to it. Besides, this time, it was for a good cause. Somebody had to create a diversion, and I did see that Klink got his stuff back before they hauled me off. I should be out in a day or so. Col. Hogan has never let me down yet. They're gettin' a sub for that Yank lieutenant tonight. He seemed like a good kid, if a bit of a scatter-brain. I hope he makes it back to London. They got him out of camp the back of Schnitzer's truck…during the whole mess-up with that bloody Kraut, Wagner.

Things got dicey after he left and that's how I ended up in here. Col. Hogan needed a diversion to get into Klinky's office for a look-see at some files. Helga is out sick, so she couldn't help. I played around and distracted Klink by swipin' his stuff, but I went a bit too far, and made Klink mad. No matter. Time fer a kip. Too cold to stay awake.  
 **12 Feb 42**  
Cold as the pope's arse tonight. Too cold to be sitting and waiting on some stupid message, but that's what I'm doing. Looks like that kid, Collins, never showed up to meet the sub. All our sources say he wasn't caught by the Jerries. Apparently, he skipped out on us. Bloody sod!  
So, here I sit in a tree in the snow in the middle of the woods waiting for one of our contacts. We've been tryin' to find this kid for two days now. It's as if he was part of me vanishing act back at the Palladium or something. I put me spyglass up to me eye, and winced. The bloody thing comes in handy, but it's so cold, it felt likely to freeze to me face.  
I took a careful look around, and something in a far ravine caught me eye. There was a brown lump in the snow, and flecks of red. I learned long ago to trust me gut, and it started telling me nothin' good. I jumped outta the tree and headed for the ravine in a hurry.  
It took me only a few minutes to hike to the edge of the ravine, and I peered through the thickening snow. What I had seen from the tree was a brown flight jacket. The red was blood, and there was a lot more of it now then there had been. It was Lt. Collins. I hurried down to his side. His blond hair was bloody, and his flight cap was gone. It looked as if he had been beaten by pros. I'd had some unfortunate experience with that on the streets of Stepney, so I recognized the work. The trail of messed up, bloody snow told me he had dragged himself a long way before passing out. He must have been trying for the camp.  
I worked on stopping Collins's blood loss, thinking the whole while. I have dealt with a lot of bad stuff in my time, but even I was shocked at the extent of the kid's injuries. Somebody had been either sending a message…or more likely, hadn't wanted to risk the sound of a gunshot being heard. I could tell there had been at least two or three men involved. One had used brass knuckles—I could see the marks clearly. Another had a knife. It looked like he had put up a helluva fight, but he'd had no chance. There was one deep slash on his thigh that had me worried. I pulled off me jumper and undershirt. I put me jumper back on and tore the undershirt into strips. I bandaged him the best I could. I am no medic, so I tried not to waste too much time. I had a feelin' he didn't have much more to waste. Lookin' at him, I wouldn't give a rat's arse for me chances of gettin' him back to the Stalag alive.  
As I wrapped the last of the bandages around his head it happened. Big blue eyes opened, and Collins blinked up at me. Weakly he rasped, "You're Newkirk. You stole my watch."  
I chuckled. "Yeah. And LeBeau cooked you the egg. Now, be quiet, or we'll 'ave the krauts down on us. We can talk back at camp."  
"How far is it?"  
"'bout half a mile. You were close."  
He shook his head tiredly. "You're a terrible liar. I would never have made it." He shut his eyes and said no more. I carefully put his jacket back on him. He was right…at least about not making it. But no one had ever accused me of being a bad liar before. In fact, it's one of me best talents. This Collins was definitely an odd duck.  
I realized I would have to carry him back to camp, and there was no way to make it comfortable. He was a skinny little runt, but I was no Hercules. Not after three years as a guest of Hitler. This was not going to be a picnic.  
"Look mate, I'm sorry, but this is gonna hurt." Before he could work out my plan, I picked him up and put him over me shoulder. He let out a pained squawk, but passed out before I had taken three steps. I could hear him breathing, so I simply made my way up the side of the ravine and headed back to camp. I was completely knackered by the time I had the stump entrance in sight. Nothing ever looked so bloody good to me as that stump did right then.  
I remember little about the rest of that night. I know we got him inside the tunnel, and I was handed a large tot of whisky by my good mate, Olsen. Nobody knows where he spends his time when he switches out with an incoming man. I figure on Fraulein Helga's flat, but I can't confirm that, and Colonel Hogan would kill him, so I'm keepin' mum about me suspicions.  
~HH~  
 **13 Feb 42**  
The next morning was a bit unusual, as I found myself still abed at mid-morning. I had been allowed to sleep through roll call, which meant Col. Hogan must have found an excuse for me. Quarantine, maybe, or just a virus, more likely, since the Krauts didn't even know Collins was here. I realized a much-bandaged Collins was asleep in the bunk below mine when I jumped down and landed with a thump beside him. He might have still been unconscious, because he never even stirred. I looked over to where Foster and Olsen slept. Olsen was gone again, so I knew he must have left camp sometime after Collins and I had come in.  
LeBeau turned from the stove, and handed me a cup of tea. I sipped it gratefully as I sat down at the table. He then refilled the pot and made coffee. Soon the smell wafted around the room. I knew the search and the events of the last few days had been hard on everyone. Most of the fellas were laying around or sitting at the table quietly. As the coffee's aroma grew stronger, Colonel Hogan's door cracked open. A hand was thrust out. LeBeau grinned and placed a cup of the fresh brew in it. The door shut with a resounding thud.  
LeBeau chuckled. "He's in a merry mood, no?"  
I nodded in agreement. "No!"  
I turned towards Collins. "How is he?"  
Louis shook his head. "It is very bad, Pierre. Wilson did the best he could. He did not even want to move him to the infirmary. He felt it was better to leave him here. He does not believe he will survive." He checked his watch. "He will be back in an hour."  
"Does Klink know?"  
"Non. He was called away to a meeting with some big shots from Berlin. He will be gone overnight. Schultz drove him. The Underground are monitoring."  
Kinch came up from below and joined us at the table. LeBeau handed him a cup of coffee. Kinch looked over at the kid, and Louis filled him in on Wilson's grim prognosis.  
Kinch nodded. He had boxed semi-professionally before the war. "I have seen guys worked over by pros before, and that's what this was. Question is, why? I talked to the kid some while we were outfitting him. He's just a farm kid who joined the Army at 17 and got trained to drop bombs. Apparently, somewhere along the line he earned himself a battlefield commission, but he wouldn't talk about it. Said it was nothing. He dug his way out of a pretty nasty situation at Stalag 5. Obviously, Collins is tougher than he looks."  
I nodded. "A lot tougher. I could tell that out in the ravine. Somebody damned near killed him after he left us…but why?"  
The colonel's voice startled us. We hadn't heard his door open. "I think it's safe to assume he saw something he wasn't supposed to see." He got a refill from Louis and sat down.  
Kinch scratched his ear. "So, we need to figure out what he saw."  
Hogan nodded. "Yeah. And I'm afraid that's a question only Collins can answer." He looked over at the battered young lieutenant. "If he ever can."  
Everyone was quiet for a few moments, and then the guv looked at me. "Did he say anything to you about what it was? About what happened?"  
I shook my head. "No, sir. He was hurtin' too much, I think. An' I was workin' too hard tryin' to keep him alive. He only woke up once, for a coupla minutes."  
Everyone went their own way after that. Me, I stayed by Collins for a while. Wilson was due soon, but since the kid seemed to be fadin', I felt somebody should sit with him. I didn't really know him, but there was just somethin' about him. The guv seemed to be thinkin' the same thing, as I felt his hand on my shoulder.  
Sadly, he said "I'd hate to have to bury another man. He seems like a helluva good one."  
I nodded, thinking about the POW cemetery on the edge of camp. The colonel walked away and I heard his door close. I shuddered, thinking how there were far too many graves out there already. I glanced up and saw a shiver go through Louis. He had heard the colonel's words, and I knew he was remembering the flu epidemic last winter. Nearly half the men in camp had come down with it and we had lost twelve men. Louis himself had contracted a severe case of it, an' for a while, I thought I'd be buryin' him, too.  
I studied the bruised face in the bunk. If we could pull Louis through, we could pull this kid through, too. I have a big family, and he reminds me of one of my younger brothers. Jamie can get himself into trouble faster than anybody I ever met, but he's so bloody charmin' nobody ever stays mad at him. I don't know him very well, but I think that's how this kid must be.  
In the short time he was in camp I watched him with the others. I don't think anyone knows quite what to make of him. I noticed his wedding ring, and asked him about his wife. He told me he's not married. When I asked why he wears the ring, he said it was a reminder. Then, he bummed a cigarette, and changed the subject. I suppose, like all of us, there's a story there, but he seems awfully young to have been married. Although, I must admit, I've nearly been caught on that hook a few times meself. I can't think of worse husband material then me, unless it's me old man. Somebody should have put a bullet into that daft bugger years ago.  
I sat a while longer, trying not to freeze. It had been a hard winter, and the blankets the Red Cross sent in had not been enough to make a dent. Of course, I doubt we were seeing all of them, because the Germans saw to the distribution of our Red Cross packages and all supplies sent to us, so we maybe saw half, if we were lucky.  
Still, we were treated much better here at 13 than many of the other camps. Some were the stuff of nightmares, including the one the kid had escaped from. Camps 5 and 6 were among the worst of all. My blood had turned cold when Collins had told us he had dug out of that place. He was a tough bugger indeed. The problem is that even though the protecting powers send inspectors to all the camps, they never see the truth, because the Jerries are clever, and the inspectors can never prove anything. They can't catch them. No one has any clue how the bastards do it.  
A low groan sounded from Collins, and I hollered for Col. Hogan, who came out of his quarters in a hurry. "He's wakin' up, sir."  
He turned to Fitz. "Go get Wilson. On the double."  
We pushed the table out of the way, and I pulled the bench a little closer, so Wilson would have a place to sit. Collins was batting at the air, like he was trying to fight something off. I leaned over him. "It's okay. Relax. You're safe."  
He opened those big eyes of his, now glassy with fever. I smiled. "Hallo, Collins. Welcome back."  
Weakly, he whispered, "Kit."  
"Pardon?"  
"Kit. My first name is Christopher, but my friends call me Kit."  
"Well then, Kit me ol' son, welcome back to Stalag 13! Me mates call me Peter." Kit smiled faintly, He waggled his fingers. "'lo, Peter." The effort of talking had obviously cost him. He closed his eyes, and grimaced.  
In a couple of minutes, Wilson came barreling through the bunk exit, Fitz right behind him. Foster had set up some bowls of water and clean rags on the table, as well as torn sheets to use as extra bandages. He took Wilson's bag from him and began to lay out his supplies. I went to move off the bench, and was startled when Kit grabbed my hand. He opened his eyes and looked right at me. The intensity of his gaze is something I'll never forget.  
"Peter, if I don't make it, there's a letter in my pocket…you'll find it. Send it to my folks, will you?"  
I shook my head. "Leave off, mate. You'll be fine."  
Stubbornly, he squeezed my hand and his expression grew hard. "I told you before, Peter. You're a terrible liar. Promise me."  
Wilson shot me a furious look, and I nodded. "Fine, Kit. I promise. Now let ol' Wilson here take a look at you. We need to get you back on your feet, you know. I've run out of gin partners." He seemed satisfied with that, and let my hand go. Wilson and Foster stepped in, and I headed outside. I desperately needed some time alone, and a cigarette. That kid just had to live. The biggest question for me was, _how the hell had he gotten under my skin so quickly?_  
I will say the next hour proved everything I had thought about Kit Collins was true. I don't know what Wilson did, but I know it was painful.  
It wasn't that he was loud—he wasn't. It was just that _I felt it_. I literally felt it. I know. Bloomin' daft, I am. But there it is. I sat on the bench in the weak winter sun, and felt every bloody thing Wilson did to the kid. It's a sort of connection or something. But I only have it with a few people in my family—Mum, (God rest 'er) Gran, m' sister Mavis and Jamie. An' now Kit. A bloke I just met. The connection takes a while to build. But I never expected the bond to be so strong.  
I waited a while after I knew Wilson had gone. It would have been tough to explain why I was in pain. I wished Olsen was in camp. At least I could have gotten a couple of shots of his good stuff to kill the worst of it. I know the guv has some scotch in his footlocker, but I don't feel like riskin' life and limb swiping it, and I absolutely don't want to tell him anything. He already figures I'm a bit of a nutter as it is.  
When I finally went inside, Kit was asleep. Louis told me Wilson had given him a shot of morphine. He also told me that the guv wanted to talk to me in his office. Me heart dropped at that. Talks alone with the guv are rarely good. One look at his face when I stepped inside told me I was right. But I was also wrong.  
He was seated on his bottom bunk. "Have a seat." I did, and he settled back. "We have a bit of a problem, Newkirk."  
"Oh?"  
"Lt. Collins remembers what happened to him. He knows why he was beaten."  
"He told you?"  
"No. He refuses to talk. That's the problem. I think he's scared. He started to answer, and then clammed up tight."  
"He doesn't seem like the type to scare easily, does he, sir?"  
"No, he doesn't. I need you to talk to him. I think maybe you might have more luck."  
I looked at the guv. "Me sir?"  
"Yeah, you. He obviously is more comfortable around you than any of the rest of us. Wilson says he's doing a little better. The sulfa powder seems to be working, and his fever is at least not getting any higher. He had to clean all the wounds and re-stitch a couple of them. Also, the swelling went down enough in his arm that Joe was able to cast it.  
I looked at him blankly. "Cast it?" I was angry with myself. _I had missed the fact he'd broken his arm?  
_ He nodded grimly. "He had tucked it inside his shirt and crawled using his right arm. That's why his right is so much more bruised than his left."  
White hot fury at whoever had done this flashed through me. The guv saw it, because he raised his hand. "Look, Newkirk. If you want to help him, get him to talk. That's the only way we're gonna be able to catch them."  
"You bet guv!" This was one mission I had no intention of failing.  
I waited for Kit to wake up. He looked a bit better after roll call that night. Klink was back in camp, and so was Olsen. Schultz was as easily confused as ever, so it wasn't that hard to keep Kit's continued presence in camp a secret. And speaking of secrets…I was determined to find out what Collins had seen. For one thing, until we knew what had happened, the danger to our mission remained very real. Of course, Kit had only had a small taste of what we did here. He didn't really understand the extent of our mission. And the colonel had done that intentionally. Once he was back in London, Kit will move on with his career in the Air Corps, and we will move on with our mission here at Stalag 13.  
Wilson had said Kit could eat if he felt up to it and Louis made him some chicken broth. It had been cooking all afternoon and the barracks smelled heavenly. LeBeau took pity on the rest of us, and after he had set aside half the broth for Collins, he made a large pot of chicken and brown dumplings. They would have been better if he could have gotten some white flour, but that was a near-impossibility. Anyway, everyone had been wandering by the stove, attempting to steal tastes from the pot, and getting their fingers smacked for their trouble. I had managed twice undetected.  
On the other hand, maybe not, because when I went back to sit next to Collins, LeBeau fixed me with a beady glare. "Pierre, Sgt. Wilson specifically said he is not to have any solid foods for at least three days. You had better not give him any of the chicken bits you stole." He shook his wooden spoon at me and turned back to his stove, muttering under his breath in French.  
I groused back at him, and stuffed the small handful of chicken into my mouth. Softly I apologized. "Sorry, mate, but he's prob'ly right. You eat this and get sick, Wilson'd have me head for sure." I chuckled at the outraged snort I heard out of Louis.  
I looked at Kit, and he smiled up at me, though he looked about as pale as I had ever seen him. The white plaster cast practically glowed against the grey wool blanket. "Ya ruddy git, why didn't you tell me it was broken?"  
"What good would it have done? I'd already put it inside my shirt. I had dragged myself clear across the forest. It wasn't like you could do a whole lot more damage. Besides, I don't recall being awake for much of the trip, anyway."  
I rolled my eyes. This kid was about as crazy as me. "Look, mate. What happened out there anyway?" His face closed and he shut his eyes. I tapped him on his good arm. "Not gonna work. You saw some of our operation here. You even took advantage of it. You wanna put us out of business?"  
He scowled. "Don't do that, Peter. You don't understand."  
"You're right. So, explain it to me. You saw somethin'. It must have scared the hell out of you, or you wouldn't be keepin' quiet about it. But, Kit, these guys tried to kill you! What happened out there?  
He shook his head. "You're right. I did see something. But even I can't believe it happened. Nobody is going to believe me if I tell. I know how this stuff works."  
I was frustrated with his attitude. I shouted without meaning to. "Collins, what are you talking about? Somebody tried to murder you! Don't you get that?"  
Suddenly he pushed himself up onto his good elbow and got in my face. He was angry and scared, and his voice carried all over the barracks, though the room was empty except for me and LeBeau. "You think I don't? You try sneaking through the woods in the dead of night and stumbling across an officer …one of your own guys, executing somebody!" I heard a gasp from Louis, though he said nothing.  
And just like that, his horrible secret was out. Kit was panting from pain and exhaustion. He fell back, completely spent. I stared at him in disbelief. "One of ours? An officer?"  
"Yeah…in a Nazi uniform. But I have seen him before…I just hadn't made the connection. I saw him once in were some other guys with him and he set them on me. They were the one that beat me up. I heard him tell them to make sure I didn't make it out of the woods."  
"How do you know he was one of ours?" This question came from Colonel Hogan, who had come into the room in time to hear part of Kit's comments. Kit shook his head and stayed quiet.  
I could have strangled him. "Aww, for the love-a-mud, Kit. Don't do this now! You can't tell us half the facts, then hold out on us. There's too much at stake!"  
Finally, Collins looked at me, and then at Colonel Hogan. "Believe me, I do know what's at stake. And if I tell you who it was, you'll report it to London. And London won't do a thing about it. Because this guy is untouchable. I was just in the wrong place at the wrong time. London will judge me to be the expendable one. That is a cold, hard fact."  
The guv scowled. "What are you talking about?"  
Collins sighed. "I may be dumb, but I didn't fall off a turnip truck. Let's just say I recognized the man as a highly placed Allied spy. London has spent years placing him where he is. The guy he killed likely was a traitor. There is no way he would jeopardize his position arbitrarily. I realized it after I came to in the woods. In fact, London probably would have ordered him to kill me if he had had time to radio for instructions beforehand. They would have just sent my parents a letter saying I had been shot down and been done with it." The bitterness dripped from his words like acid. "If you report my presence back here to London, they'll arrange for the sub to pick me up like normal. And somewhere along the way, I will disappear. And then London will send that letter of condolence to my parents. Problem solved." He locked eyes with the colonel.

Colonel Hogan, to his credit, didn't deny Kit's words. With London, the mission comes first, an' we all know we're basically just military issue. He did, however, have one question. "How highly placed is this spy?"  
"The highest."  
"Nimrod?"  
Collins' expression was a mask—completely unreadable. And that was answer enough. The guv paled, and realized that Kit was right. If we sent him back to London, he was a dead man.  
Thirty seconds later, something hit me. "How did you know it was Nimrod, mate? That's the best kept Allied secret of the war. No one knows what he looks like."  
"It's classified."  
Col. Hogan frowned. "Look, I want to help you. _Everything_ about this place is classified. It's just the three of us, and Kinch. He'll know, because he is a part of the core team. But other than that, nothing will leave this room. I can come up with a plan, but not if you won't cooperate. I have to know what I'm getting into."  
He sighed, obviously unhappy. "Okay. I can't go into details, but I saved his life once. He was hitching a ride on our bomber. We got shot down. He got hurt. I helped him out and got us away from a Kraut patrol. He talked a lot when he was delirious. I found out who he was. His fever broke. He never remembered anything about it. We escaped. London has no idea I know. I got my commission out of the deal. End of story."  
The guv whistled softly. "You're right. London will do anything to protect him." He rubbed his chin and began to pace. Kit lay back, his face deathly pale. I realized he was at the end of his tether.  
"Look, mate. Try to sleep. Let the guv think a bit. He'll come up with somethin.'"  
Collins said nothin'. He was already asleep.  
~HH~  
 **17 Feb 42**  
Collins is a quick healer, I'll give him that. He's up and able to sit up some already. He joins us at the table for a few minutes at a time, until he gets to hurting too much. He's also a killer gin player. I've yet to win a game against him. It's been so cold that Klink has been allowing Schultz to hold roll calls inside the barracks, which has made hiding Collins easy. We simply put him in the guv's quarters during roll call.  
LeBeau threw his cards onto the table in disgust. He's had no better luck against Kit than me. The guv doesn't play much, so he just sits back and watches the slaughter. He's been quiet the last few days, and that tells me he's been trying to figure out what to do about the kid. The bunk latch popped and Kinch handed the guv a message.  
"Okay, we've got one, boys." He looked at Collins a bit apologetically. "My office."  
Collins nodded, and dealt himself a hand of solitaire as the rest of us trooped into the guv's quarters.

According to the guv, the mission was pretty straight-forward. Just a simple pick-up of a downed flyer. Kinch and I would be handling it, because according to London, he was wounded, though there was no word on how seriously. We might need to carry him back into camp. This wasn't the first time that had happened. Baker would handle the radio and LeBeau would come along to scout for Kraut patrols.  
Collins was quiet most of that day. I know it bothered him, being on the outside of things, but he understood. I sat down at the table where he was playing with some squares of silk and a few bullets he had scrounged from our ordinance supply. He had borrowed a pair of pliers from Kinch and was busy pulling the bullets apart. He was managing the task amazing well considering the cast on his arm. It barely seemed to slow him down.  
"What'cha doin' mate?"  
He smiled. "Oh, nothing really. I was just bored. I'm making some poppers."  
"Poppers?"  
"Uh-huh." He flipped his thumb toward the stack of cigarettes piled next to my deck of cards-my poker stakes. "You mind?"  
I handed him one and lit it, almost on reflex.  
"Thanks." He continued unscrewing the bullets, and pouring the contents of a couple of them into each piece of silk. He then tied of the silk and set it aside. Pretty soon he had a small pile.  
"Okay," I said. "Now that you've got 'em, what are you gonna do with the ruddy things?"  
He grinned. "Come on. I'll show you." He dropped them into his pocket and motioned me to follow him.  
We headed to the bunk exit, and I was surprised he got it to open on his first try, though I suppose I shouldn't have been. He carefully climbed down the ladder, and lead off down the tunnel. He headed for an unused side tunnel, that was kind of dark. It was not my favorite place, but I'd never tell him that I don't favor the dark. Collins seemed satisfied, however, and he stopped about halfway down.  
"This looks like a good place." He pulled the poppers out and handed me a few of them.  
"Here, throw them really hard."  
I must have looked confused, because he grinned, and suddenly pitched one to the floor. It flashed, with a small bang and a little smoke.  
He laughed. "See? I thought maybe you could use them for diversions or something."  
"The guv's gonna love these. How did you know how to make 'em?"  
"I've been fooling around with stuff like this since I was a kid."  
He chuckled as I tossed a couple of them. "Whatever you do, don't store 'em in the same pocket as your matches."  
Our laughter echoed through the tunnel as we headed back to the barracks.  
~HH~  
 **Later that night-Outside camp**  
I wasn't laughing any more. The flyer was badly hurt, and I doubted we'd make it back to camp with him alive. He was young, too. Way too young. I swore bitterly to myself. I am getting damned sick and tired of feeding good men to the Nazis. As we carefully picked the kid up, I realized the irony of it was that he was also a skinny blond. He wore a bomber jacket, but it was too dark to see much more than that.  
LeBeau fell in place in front of us, careful not to look too closely, as there was a lot of blood all over the flyer, and now, all over both Kinch and me. I heard Kinch mutter, "Looks like we we're just gonna end up taking him to the graveyard."  
When we got had gotten him back and laid him on one of the cots in the tunnel, we made a discovery. He looked a helluva lot like Kit Collins. They could have been brothers, although Kit was probably a few years older. Baker ran to get Wilson, who examined him and grimly pulled Colonel Hogan aside. When he came back, we knew the news was pretty much what we had expected just by the look on the guv's face. Wilson gave the flier a dose of morphine and left, with instructions to call him when it was time. There was nothing more he could do.  
Kit insisted on sitting with him. It hadn't been that long ago he had been where this boy was. Eventually, we left the two of them alone. The kid drifted in and out of consciousness for several hours. They talked a little, as the boy was able, and we learned a few things about him. He was an orphan who had run away from the boy's home he was raised in to join the army. He'd lied about his age, and been in for two years. He was from Indiana. Oddest of all, considering his blond hair and blue eyes, he was half Sioux Indian. His mother had been from somewhere in North Dakota, but he had never met any of his relatives. She had taught him all about his heritage until she had died when he was nine and he had ended up at the boys' home.  
And then Kit gave the boy the greatest gift anyone could have. The kid knew he was dying. But instead of dwelling on it, Kit told him his story. It kept him from feeling the pain so much. And Kit told him everything. All about Wagner, the woods, the master spy…all of it. The kid drank in every word, as if it were the greatest adventure story he had ever heard. _Come to that, it prob'ly was_.  
I sat at Kinch's desk and I heard their conversation, because the guv had asked me to go through the kid's things. We needed to learn all we could about him. There wasn't much. His dog tags, which I looked over and set aside. A standard American Air Corps bombardier's survival kit. Nothin' more. No personal letters, or photos. A bit of pocket change. Not much to show for such a brave kid.  
The only personal item I found was a brown rabbit's foot key-chain, with no key on it. It was now flecked with his own blood, and I shivered. I did find his military i.d. which surprised me. He'd never had the chance to hide it after being shot down…he'd been too hurt. I took a good look at it. His i.d. said he was 22. I know rubbish when I read it. I'd bet me life Technical Sergeant Andrew J. Carter wasn't more than 18 years old.  
Suddenly, Andrew groaned, and began to cough. Kit slipped an arm around him and sat him up a little. The coughing eased. "Thanks." As Carter lay back, his eyes suddenly grew large as realization hit him. He looked at his new friend. "You're trapped here, then, aren't you?"  
Kit shrugged. "Yeah, pretty much."  
"That's not right."  
"It's okay. Colonel Hogan will fix me up."  
Andrew smiled weakly. "I can help, you know."  
Kit was startled. "You? How?"  
"Look at us. We could be twins…or at least brothers, since you're older than me. Haven't you noticed?"  
Kit looked away for a moment, struggling with his emotions. "I had, kind of. It's just…"  
"I get it. I'm dying. It's hard to watch somebody that looks like you die."  
Kit winced at the blunt honesty, even as Andrew continued speaking.  
"Kit, I don't know what you believe about life, but I believe that I was brought here for a reason. Sort of guided here, I guess. It's my time. I accept that. I can help you by allowing you to take my identity. There is no one for the army to contact about me. No one will even care. Let me ask you. What's your blood type?"  
I could hear the confusion in his voice as Kit replied, "O negative. Why?"  
Andrew chuckled when I chimed in, "I got a look at his dog tags. So is his, mate."  
Kit resisted the idea for a few more minutes, but as Andrew grew weaker, he also became more agitated. Kit realized how much it meant to him, and he finally agreed.  
I took a good look at the two of them, and went for the guv and the others. I've seen more death in my time than I care to remember. I knew Carter was almost out of time. The guv sent Olsen for Wilson.  
He examined him, and then looked up at Colonel Hogan. He mouthed the words "Minutes, maybe."  
Carter beckoned Kit over to him. The rest of us couldn't make out what he said, but Kit nodded. He knelt next to Carter, who placed his hands on Kit's bowed head. He then began chanting in some strange language I had never heard before. It was guttural and powerful, and yet beautiful.  
Carter's voice grew stronger as his chant continued, until it seemed as if it were echoing off the walls. The chant changed pitch and became a sort of song that faded nearly to a whisper. Too soon, the song ended, and his hands fell back to his chest. Kit's head came up and he looked at us, his eyes bleak. "He's gone."  
~HH~  
 **19 Feb 42**  
A couple of the men constructed a coffin and we buried Sgt. Andrew J. Carter in an unmarked grave. There are several of them out there, so the Germans will be none the wiser. Though it can't it can't be helped, I wish we could do better by him, because a dying kid from Muncie, Indiana will always be an Unsung Hero…and Kit will be safe.  
Technical Sergeant Andrew J. Carter is now Papa Bear's newest cub. We have a lot of work to do.  
~HH~  
 **19 May 42**  
It had been a beautiful spring so far. It was actually warm for once. Me allergies had finally calmed down enough that the guv was allowing me outside the wire for a change. I was glad, because I had been going crazy sticking around camp these past six weeks. * Andrew and I were in civvies, and had been sent into town to meet a contact. We wandered along the road to town strollin' and chattin' as if we belonged there. We had learned long ago this was the best way to blend in. He was natterin' on, the way he does, and playing with his rabbit's foot. He had seen it on Kinch's desk that night, and he never lets it out of his sight.  
I smiled sadly, thinking about it. We both still watch over his grave…and I noticed Andrew had planted some flowers there. I wonder if Klink has ever missed them? I doubt it. _He'd miss an elephant if it sat on 'im…_  
Several civilians were coming towards us, and Andrew suddenly stumbled. If I hadn't caught him, he woulda fallen for sure. "What's wrong, mate?"  
The men never even noticed us. Andrew, on the other hand, was pale and shaking. He made no attempt to answer me. I tapped his arm and he whirled around and nearly swung on me.  
I jumped back. "What the hell's the matter with you?"  
In a strangled voice he whispered, "It's them."  
"Who?"  
"The guys from the forest."  
"You mean the ones that—"  
He nodded grimly.  
White hot rage erupted and I sprinted after them. Just as suddenly, I found myself sprawling in the dirt, when Andrew tackled me. The three men disappeared around a bend.  
I pushed him off, furious with him. "What did you do that for?"  
"You were gonna get yourself killed."  
"No, I was gonna kill them."  
"That's what I mean, Peter. Those guys don't mess around. You saw what they did to me. You're good, but there were three of them. You could take maybe two, but not all three. And I'm good, but not that good. Besides, if we get ourselves messed up, or arrested, what happens to the operation? Colonel Hogan needs us."  
I shook my head. "I am not just gonna let 'em go. What if they recognize you? Then what?"  
"I didn't say I want to just let them go." His face went deathly white and still. " _I want them dead._ But it's not about what I want, or what you want. We don't work that way, and you know it."  
I sighed. "You're right, mate. But it doesn't mean I won't take me pound o' flesh if I get the chance."  
He smiled grimly. "Believe me, I wouldn't expect anything else!"  
I patted the pocket with the information for Colonel Hogan. "Let's get back home, mate."  
Carter grinned, "I'm right behind you, buddy!"  
~HH~ 

**23 May 42**

 **Hammelburg Hospital**

Dr. Franz Holtz had learned his lesson well indeed. His patients always had a variety of astounding explanations for their injuries and ills when he saw them in his examination room. He normally tuned them out. It was much safer if anyone came asking questions later. Therefore, when three men showed up at his hospital all on the same day with nearly identical stories of having been assaulted in the middle of the night in the woods by at least ten men wearing rubber masks and black clothes, he paid no attention.  
The fact was the three men smelled like a still and were all as drunk as lords at the time. True, they were badly beaten, and covered with cuts and bruises. But as drunk as they were, they could also simply have fallen into one of the many ravines in the area.  
He thought about it. Who would actually put on a rubber mask and force someone to drink a bottle of whiskey in the middle of the woods? And then dump them at the hospital? Allowing them to spread their ridiculous tale? It was preposterous! Eventually, Dr. Holtz decided he was fed up with the three. He sent them off for lengthy psychiatric evaluations. At the asylum, their case was not helped by the fact that each of them kept screaming incoherently about having been attacked by a ghost.  
~The End~


End file.
